


Dogwood and Eggnog

by BlanketFortAvenger



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, And his sass is drowned in adorable, Baking, Christmas, Christmas Cookies, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, Family Feels, Flower Crowns, Hale Family Feels, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Not Beta Read, Older Stiles Stilinski, Peter's just trying to protect the pack, Pre-Slash, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Young Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 07:51:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17158145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlanketFortAvenger/pseuds/BlanketFortAvenger
Summary: Copse Cottage hadn’t had a soul live in it for almost a decade. With his sister preparing for the Hale family Christmas reunion in a few days, Peter joyfully takes it upon himself to find out who has moved into the derelict property. In hindsight, Peter probably should have just baked them a plate of sugar cookies like a normal, nosy neighbour.





	Dogwood and Eggnog

Copse Cottage hadn’t had a soul live in it for almost a decade. The almond trees that hadn’t already perished from neglect stood, gnarled, in lines of solidarity. The cottage itself was in poor condition, the roof having fallen in, and there was more rot than there was wood. Yet, when Peter was making his way up the Hale drive in the early evening, there was the amber glow of warm light between the trees.

His sister was frantic with preparations for the Christmas reunion, and obviously hadn’t noticed anyone moving into the neighbouring property. Peter lingered a moment, slowing his car to a crawl, and winding down the window to pick up on any new sound, or scent from the cottage. Nothing seemed to stir from between the trees of the orchard, but he could hear the rhythmic thwack of someone chopping wood. Thwack. Firewood probably, it was going to be a cooler winter than usual, and Peter could smell smoke. Thwack. There was another scent under the smoke, but stronger than the dormant almond trees. Peter could smell mistletoe, lots of it. It took only a moment for Peter to realise that the sound of chopping had ceased, but only after having been overcome by the feeling of being watched. Unable to find the watcher, Peter puts his car in gear, and accelerates up the drive toward the house.

 

That night, Peter goes for a run. He’d rather not stay to help with the decorations, and someone needed to investigate the new, potential threat. Slipping low to the ground, there’s enough of a chill in the air that he shivers into his fur. Twisting through the trees from shadow to shadow, concealing his charcoal grey coat, he keeps downwind of the cottage. Approaching the copse of almonds, he can see the delicate filaments of the mistletoe. It hangs en masse about the bare limbs of the trees. Its clusters of deadly, white berries shine in the little moonlight that slips through the clouds. There must be hundreds of plants between the remaining host trees. His wolf gives a low growl. Peter waits, still as stone, trying to discern any movement from the cottage, but it’s as if the night has become as still as he is. He cautiously begins down the worn path through the orchard, and comes upon the crumbling stone wall at the edge of the cottage garden. There are thin branches woven and steeped together to make up the parts of the wall that have fallen. Peter doesn’t hesitate to jump up and over the old stone, into the enclosed space. A mistake.

He lands amongst a rich array of herbs. He hadn’t smelled them before, but upon disturbing their evening rest, their scents become overwhelmingly known. As his paws sink into the earth, pollen, and fragrant foliage plume up around him. Woodruff, meadowsweet, rue… they’re not the typical gourmet, garden selection. There’s one scent that is more devastating upon his senses than the rest, and Peter can already feel himself growing dizzy with it. As his legs give way, he’s able to raise his head just barely, to see the masses of delicate, purple petals of blooming wolfsbane.

 

Peter wakes to a boot in the stomach, and two figures looming over him.

“Where have you been?” His nephew asks, still nudging his foot into Peter’s chest. Laura is behind him, giggling with phone in hand. Peter can hear the camera shutter, repeatedly.

“Where’s your mother?” Peter ignores his niece, he sits up, and directs his question toward Derek. He needs to speak with Talia immediately, though the urgency is muddled. His mind his foggy, and he can’t remember why he needs to speak with her. Derek shrugs.

“She’s gone to buy a wreath, and ivy for the banisters,” Laura answers. “We also need holly for the table, but it’ll all be sold now. We’ll have to use plastic ones,” she pouts slightly. She, and her mother had been coordinating the Christmas decorations for months. Peter knows that they pre-ordered the tree especially, three months prior, and had imported clementines from Spain. To be unable to fulfil the vision must be upsetting. “Unless you know someone, uncle Peter.” She winks. Peter raises an eyebrow. “It must be hard to find dogwood blossoms his time of year.” She supplies, and worsens his confusion.

“How drunk were you?” His nephew asks, a smirk quirking his lips. Peter looks down at his bare chest, and muddied jeans, and finally questions how, the hell, it is that he ended up sleeping shirtless on the porch.

“I haven’t had anything to drink,” Peter answers truthfully, though his head’s groggy, and he must be unsure of himself enough that his heart gives him away.

“Bullshit,” Laura snickers.

“Uncle Peter,” Derek deadpans. “…you’re wearing a flower crown.” Peter startles, before reaching up to find that, sure enough, there is a band of blossoms upon his brow. His sister’s children chuckle at his bewilderment. He removes the crown to look at the soft, snow-white, buds of dogwood. They are blooming much too early, even for the warmer, winter climate of California. There is pale gold, and white ribbons wrapped around the crown, tied in a loose, dangling bow at the back. A brown paper tag is secured to the sprigs with garden string. Chaotic, gold cursive in metallic ink adorns the tag. No signature, but the words are enough to trigger Peter’s memories of the night before.

 _‘These should help you feel better. Come visit again, I’ll make eggnog.’_ Peter stares at the note a moment, then at the circlet of blossoms.

“That must have been _some_ eggnog,” Laura laughs, leaving to follow Derek back into the house. Suddenly, Peter is less inclined to report to his sister; he’s much too curious.

 

Peter spends the afternoon in the kitchen. He’s just finished rolling out the dough, and is pressing the sharp, metal cookie-cutter into the soft mixture, when his sister arrives home. He has to work quickly, or else the butter begins to soften too much, and so he doesn’t raise his head, as Talia calls for him. She walks into the kitchen, and the aggressive scents of holly and ivy chase away the sweetness of powdered sugar and almond.

“Oh, you’re baking already. When you’re done, I need help.” She drapes the bundles of vine and sprigs over a free counter-top, “I went to pick up these, but the wreath wasn’t finished yet, I need you to pick it up for me.” Peter hums agreement, in favour of sighing in defeat.

“If I must.” He presses the cookie-cutter into the dough one last time, before laying the soft-edged star out onto a baking tray. He brushes some of the powdered sugar from his hands. Talia is watching him with a silent smile, a still moment in her busily, scheduled day. He huffs a breath out, trying, poorly, to disguise his own grin.

“Thank you, little brother,” She sings. The moment is brief, but so reminiscent of their Christmases spent as children, and then she’s back to her focused haste and preparations. However, just as she leaves the kitchen, she calls back over her shoulder. “Give it a couple hours, then pick up the wreath from Stiles. He just moved into the cottage down the road.” Peter fumbles the tray a little, as he goes to place it in the oven.

 

That evening finds Peter standing at the gate of Copse Cottage. A daintily hand-painted sign announces that it is now known as, Laurel Wood. The roof has been patched up, and the cottage has been freshly painted an icy shade of blue, with white trimmings. Glass lanterns hang from ornate, cast-iron hooks, and alight the orchard. Christmas lights are now strung all throughout the cottage garden like stars amongst the wild flowers. The gate is made of woven branches, flexible boughs bent and lashed together to create the frame. Peter can see now that it is made of mountain ash, and that it lines the entire perimeter of the stone wall. He also takes the time to notice the intricate sigils carved into the stones every few feet along. The plant life would suggest druid, but the spell work speaks strongly of witch.

Intrigued, Peter lays a hand on the gate, and when he pushes, it swings open without any resistance. Stepping through the barrier, the only sign of there having been one, is the assault of scents that swarm him once he’s over the threshold. It’s not half as bad as it had been the night before. The plants are all growing together in wild multitudes. Peter can see several that should not be flowering this time of year. Amongst the more unusual, there’s more common plant life. Mint, thyme, rosemary, basil, and even a range of different berries.

Standing in amongst it all, the only sign that he might have an audience is the uptick of a heartbeat. He looks up, shifting the wrapped plate of sugar cookies to his other hand. A young man that Peter presumes to be Stiles is leaning against the doorframe. He’s staring at Peter with a curious look. The kind of stare that hasn’t decided whether to be welcoming or menacing. There’s a wicker ring in his hands, which he runs through his fingers absent-mindedly, as they assess each other. Peter watches in astonishment, as small, feathery twiglets of fir, acorns, and poinsettia grow and twist around it at his fingertips.

“That explains the wolfsbane blooming out of season,” Peter murmurs lowly, and the other’s expression flitters through recognition, and surprise, to settle on awkwardly pleased.

“I’ve been calling you creeper wolf in my head,” the young man announces before visibly flinching with a grimace, and sighing regretfully. “I meant to say that I’m glad to finally meet you while you’re conscious.” Peter only smirks at the faint blush on the other’s cheeks, content to focus on that instead of his own embarrassment. 

“I’d prefer you call me Peter.” He holds out the plate of cookies, as an offer of apology. The young man pushes off the doorway, to take them, and his smile is open and genuine. Peter wonders if maybe he’s inhaled too much of the wolfsbane pollen again, because he’s starting to feel tipsy.

“And you can call me Stiles. I’m sorry you accidentally poisoned yourself in my garden.” Peter looks at Stiles’ full lashes, and bespeckling of beauty marks.

“It was worth it for the invitation. Something tells me you make eggnog strong enough for someone like me to really enjoy it.” Stiles laughs. He looks at Peter, smile softening, but not at all diminished.

“You bet’cha, come on in.” He winks, turning, and waving Peter in after him. Peter follows happily, and something tells him that this is going to be a very, merry Christmas.

**Author's Note:**

> I like to think that both, Talia and Stiles are fully aware of how adorable Peter can be.  
> Merry Christmas, and happy holidays everyone. Hope you all are well.
> 
> I don't own any of these characters.


End file.
